Poetry, story and real life. Once soldier, busnessman, grandfather and Poet.

Wild roses

Wild roses

I knew her.
Her beauty had tempted me for many months.
She would dance with me when the songs were good.
She was a long-legged woman who had wild blue eyes and loved the whisky and the long night.

I loved her auburn hair and kind and sweet voice.
She told me often.
“Wild roses grow where they want. They know pretty lies and story. The wild rose grows near the river and the thorns can make you bleed for the remnant of love is left and lulls the breath of wishes, that cannot be fulfilled. Old lovers may weep but the wild rose cannot.”

I told her often. Free men fear not the wild rose. The taste of the sweet kiss and the loving embrace would be enough. Dark is the night and loneliness is the night when lover’s wish is not fulfilled. Love is sweet and very dangerous. You will bleed and weep for love. Better to have slowed danced and known the gentle touch of the wild rose. Men, who do not know the blushing rose. They yearn for the dance with always.

She smiled and whispered. “Brave soldier who fear not the night or the ending. You shall know the deep sadness one day. The wild roses are free and men want to hold and control all things. I shall break your heart.”

I brought her closer and I knew her words were true and I still loved and needed my wild rose.
John Castellenas/Coyote